


Torte for Sister Monica Joan

by Oh_no_not_us



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Bicycle Accident, F/F, Mostly Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_no_not_us/pseuds/Oh_no_not_us
Summary: Delia is missing Patsy. Delia is tired. Mrs Busby comes to London to push Delia into action with unexpected results.





	1. Alone again, naturally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Janet Doughnut](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Janet+Doughnut).



> JD- I promised you a story. Better late than never. To everyone else- this is for you too. More pupcake for everyone!

Another letter came. This time from a London solicitor. From Lincoln’s Inn, to be precise, per the return address. The heavy cotton rag envelope was the kind her father used for the family draper shop. The colour was nearly the same; it must be some variation of ‘Jersey cream’ the engraver used for their business letterhead, Delia thought to herself.

She didn’t want to open it. She had no legal business in London. Nor had there been any legal business in Wales. The previous letters from the Pembrokeshire solicitor said only vague things, like “Discovery is ongoing.” and “There is no need for any action on your part at this time.” What could they mean? What did it matter? The love of her life was thousands of miles away. Those incoming letters from Hong Kong were the ones that mattered. And they had stopped.

Her life at Nonnatus plodded along. In the upstairs hallway, there would be a forlorn look from Nurse Crane, “Good morning Nurse Busby” followed by a hushed, “Still no news from Hong Kong?” as the day’s first greeting. She could wager that once downstairs there would be a gummy, toothy smile from Sister Winifred. And then at breakfast there would be Barbara, trying to keep her smile as demure as possible. But with her pre-wedding excitement and her bliss exploding from every pore, it made any non-verbal attempt at empathy, which was usually her forte, fall flat.

It’s not that Delia resented her happiness. There could never be enough happiness for others—at least that’s what she was taught and still believed. However, the reality was that there could never be enough happiness for her. Not now. Not ever. Now that her love was gone. Now that the letters that mattered had stopped. No words delivered to her. No words could be expressed for the pain Delia felt while pretending to enjoy bridal magazines in Trixie and Val’s room. There were no words to adequately describe the visceral empty pit she carried with her every day. That deep emptiness was exacerbated by sitting as the head model for the bridal veil fitting for the very pregnant Aussie. 

The internal burrow once filled by warm-fuzzies when she thought of Patsy was empty. 

>>>>><<<<<

Delia’s night-shift at The London dragged on. As usual, her thoughts spun around the same subject matter and the same missing person. The stack of law firm letters had grown to 6. Four were unopened. Still no word from Patsy. Why? For weeks every thought circled back to Patsy and that question.

The Pembrokeshire solicitor’s first letter had been over a month ago. But now, it suddenly occurred to Delia that perhaps the London solicitor had something to do with Patsy. Had something happened to her? Did she succumb to some exotic illness whilst in Hong Kong? It had been over 6 weeks of silence. Should she open each letter? She was overwhelmed with frustration, grief and sadness. Her ability to act was frozen over simple things that to others would have been common sense. She just couldn’t bring herself to do anything. Even something as simple as opening a letter from a stranger made her freeze up. Should she reply to the first lawyer? In that letter the solicitor hadn’t asked her to contact him. But what did it mean? What is discovery? Why is there nothing for me to do, she wondered? Are the London and Pembrokeshire letters even connected? Perhaps the answers would come to her after her shift and she returned to Nonnatus.

“I used to know who I was. I used to have goals and dreams that brought me to London,” Delia said softly to herself. Delia’s thoughts were spinning into a whirling dervish of negativity, confusion and doubt. But still she was immobilized and couldn’t take even a small step like opening these letters. They just couldn’t matter, she thought. Truth be told, the residual effects from her accident impacted her ability to rely on her thoughts and memories, which in turn, exacerbated her self-doubt. Her confidence was shaken to the core. There was no one she could tell any of this or she would risk dismissal from work. Nursing kept her in London where she could at least wait for Patsy’s return. The redhead’s absense hindered her focus even more than her physical condition.

The ward was dark and quiet. Delia surreptitiously popped another wine gum into her mouth as her mind continued to drift. Patsy’s family came from money. She never talked about it, not directly anyway. Sure there was the boarding school, the fashion sense and that accent. Oh how Delia longed to hear that posh accent whisper in her ears again. I love you. But there was nothing now. Only silence. 

Patsy must have decided that now was as good a time as any to break it off. Radio silence. Delia was not one of “her kind”. She was told as much by the other trainees in nursing school. A girl from a Welsh village couldn’t cut it in the capital. Such a girl could never be good enough. Sure the residents of Nonnatus House were friendly and would share a cuppa. But when it came down to the nitty gritty, Delia couldn’t compare or compete with the backgrounds and breeding of Sister Monica Joan or Sister Julienne. On the opposite end of the spectrum, she didn’t have Sister Evangelina’s experience living in poverty, but Sister Evangelina had that in common with the Poplar families. She was a natural to fit in. She was also dead. Even if she were alive, Delia didn’t have the right accent and that made her stand out as a foreigner. What if Patsy’s father made his daughter ‘see the light’? That her ‘friendship’ with a lowly, inferior Welsh woman was not acceptable to someone of her breeding, culture and status. What if she finally figured out that Delia could never live up to the requisite manners and lavish lifestyle that Patsy was surely living again in Hong Kong? 

With her shift finally over, Delia bundled herself in her dark wool coat, wrapped a red scarf around her neck and put mittens on her hands. She walked outside into the foggy, early-morning din of Whitechapel Road to wait for the next bus toward Poplar. She saw, but didn’t mentally register, the hawkers wielding their carts of fabrics, vegetables, watches and handbags (of questionable pedigree) to set up their stalls in order to sell the day’s wares. The night’s distractions continued their journey through Delia’s mind. More by autopilot than by focus, she found her way to the steps of Nonnatus House. She trudged up the stairs and went directly to her room.

“I’ll never have her money, the status that comes from her class…. or her. She’s gone,” Delia muttered to herself. She looked over at the pile of papers growing on the table she used for letter writing. Before lying on the bed, she took the old letters her Patsy sent from Hong Kong and carefully unfolded them. Another read. Another attempt to patch up the hole in her heart. But still the thoughts kept coming. Maybe if I save up. We could buy a flat together? No, she’ll want to live in Belgravia or at least Chelsea, how could I compete with that? She’ll be expecting a staff to welcome her home, not a 2 room flat with a meter to feed for heat and 3 flights of stairs to descend each morning and ascend at night. How could I have been so foolish? To risk so much. To feel so miserable. It was never meant to be.

Even though her thoughts came rapidly and pushed her further into the downward spiral, there was still a spark somewhere inside her. It was small and becoming more dim but still there, wasn’t it? She could tell herself the glimmer was there anyway. Hah! But the evidence was mounting, wasn’t it? Mounting. Aye, that’s irony for you. My mind can’t stray too far from her. What a “Patsy” I am too! Isn’t that the term the Hollywood gangster movies used? A Sap. Gullible. Useless. Certainly no good for a woman of her caliber. That’s why the letters stopped. Patsy finally came to her senses and found a man to give her back the social standing and life she said she left behind but could never truly let go of. 

The vortex of negativity grew until fatigue won out and sleep finally came. The glimmer of hope that fueled happy dreams was simultaneously being snuffed out by silence and drowned by the barrage of thoughts pouring into her head and beating into her broken heart.

 

(Mrs B takes charge)

There were three quiet raps on Delia’s door. Then came four louder ones. A groggy Delia, pushed herself up, pulled up the covers to her neck and groaned, “Come in”. 

A smiling Trixie appeared. “Good morning sweetie. You’ve got a visitor downstairs. You’ve missed breakfast, but I’ve brought you a cup of tea to get you started after your long night. Mrs B has some scones prepared that may tide you both over until luncheon.”

“Who is it?”, Delia inquired.

“It’s your mum. She said she you would know why she’s here today instead of tomorrow from the letter she wrote.” Trixie sympathetically looked at Delia and then to her writing desk and added, “Oh… I guess you haven’t had the chance to read your mail, that stack looks like it’s been there for a while and that it’s still growing. Don’t worry, sweetie. Barbara is filling Mrs Busby’s head with details of the wedding and how it’s every girl’s dream to find the man of her dreams and settle down. Now that she’s got a proper dress, it looks like Barbara is ready for a celebration.”

“My mam and Barbara are doing what?” was all Delia could muster and her sullen expression re-appeared, a sadness Trixie had noticed for quite a few weeks.

“I’ll leave you be, sweetie, we’ll keep your mum busy until you’ve had a chance to freshen up.” With that Trixie left the room. 

Delia tentatively planted her feet on the cold floor, looked over at the desk, and ran her hand over the letters. “How could I have missed the Cymru postmark?” she sighed to herself. She opened the envelope, but didn’t remove the letter inside. “Why should I start reading these now? Whatever she’s come a day early to tell me she’ll just repeat in person anyway.”

Delia left the room, quickly freshened up, and saw her reflection in the mirror. She considered a panstick fix for the dark circles under her eyes, but that wouldn’t do anything to brighten her demeanour. Surely, her mother would see through any attempt at a masquerade. “Sod it!” she said loud enough for others to hear, but thankfully no one was within earshot. She put on clean clothes and headed down the stairs.

>>>>><<<<<

“We can’t go out with you looking like that!” Mrs Busby hissed as Delia entered the room.

“Good morning, Mam. You look well.” Delia said, trying to placate her mother’s mood.

“I can see you’ve not been getting sufficient rest, child. Do you have the energy to stand up straight or has this place sapped all your strength? I told you going back to work was too much too soon.” Mrs Busby looked around before adding, “I was assured by Sister Julienne your friends were going to take care of you here. I can see that they have limitations. No one can do what a mother can for her only daughter.” Across the room, Trixie sat up in her chair, alerted by the attacks on Delia and all of Nonnatus’ residents.

Over her mother’s shoulder, Delia could see an affronted Trixie looking at her with sympathy and support. Not sure how to proceed Delia asked, “Why are you here today, Mam?”

Mrs Busby explained that her letters disclosed all that and they were going to be late if Delia didn’t get a move on. “We can discuss it along the way. Go upstairs and dress for the appointment. We’ve no time to waste”.

As Delia left the room, Trixie rose and asked whether Mrs Busby would like her tea freshened up. Somewhat perturbed at not knowing the nurse had heard the conversation, she replied in the negative but asked, “Where might I spend a penny?”

Trixie pointed to which corridors to follow and then headed upstairs. She rapped on Delia’s door. “What is all this about, sweetie?”

“I have no idea” came the reply. “I don’t know where I am supposed to be or what she has planned for us-- or me-- or how to dress for it…“ the Welshwoman added, obviously annoyed.

Trixie came over to her and gave her a friendly hug. “Whatever it is, your mum seems to be on a mission. You know we all love you and are here for you sweetie. I can’t give you any advice except to dress warmly. It’s cold outside”.

Trixie left the room and Delia did as she was told. She bundled herself in floral dress and cardigan, tied a scarf over her head, grabbed her gloves and handbag. She took a quick look in the mirror, pinched her cheeks for colour and headed downstairs. Her mum was waiting by the door with Delia’s coat in hand. 

Once outside, Mrs Busby reached in her coat pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. “Here’s the address, love. Which is faster a bus or the Underground?”

While Poplar and Whitechapel were becoming more familiar to Delia, the city itself was not. But she couldn’t let her mother know that. Delia looked at the paper and overconfidently declared, “The bus, definitely the bus. We’ll have less walking in this weather than taking the tube.” With that they walked to the stop and waited for the next Number 15 to Holborn.

Delia hopped on the red Routemaster first, grabbed the pole and reached out for her mother’s hand. The steps were tall for the Welshwomen. Despite her protestations to the contrary, Mrs Busby was not as nimble as she used to be. She and Delia found a seat downstairs, away from men smoking pipes and children with sticky hands patting their mother’s coats for attention. 

“Where to, love?” the Cockney Conductor asked, looking at Mrs Busby. She huffed slightly at the forwardness of the greeting, looked down at her paper and started to reply, but Delia interrupted her. Taking the paper from her mother’s hand, she inquired, “Do you recommend a Chancery Lane stop or Holborn for us, sir?” 

“Either will do, but there’s some road work in the vicinity, so I reckon Chancery Lane would be better. Is that a Welsh brogue I hear ladies?” Delia nodded and smiled, used to the attention her accent brought, but surprised by the wink and “Welcome to London madam” he loudly declared towards Mrs Busby. Her mother shifted uncomfortably at the attention while Delia paid the fares. The Conductor turned the knobs and crank on the Gibson A14, tore off the tickets and handed them to Mrs Busby with a sharp nod and click of his heels.

Now settled for the journey, Delia asked simply, “Why are you here, Mam, and where are we going?”

“To Lincoln’s Inn. The solicitor has scheduled a meeting with you about the case. They sent me a copy of the letter they sent to you at Nonnatus. The only change was for the meeting to be held today rather than tomorrow. It was disruptive for me to leave Pembrokeshire a day early, but I am here for you my dear.” Confusion evident on Delia’s face, Mrs Busby mistook it and asked, “You aren’t going to have one of your spells now, are you? This appointment is important”.

“I don’t have them anymore, Mam. What is important?”  
“The driver of the car is claiming you were careless. They’ll say anything to avoid responsibility. The insurance company is saying you were daydreaming or not paying attention on that bicycle and you were the cause of the accident last year. Something about a witness saying you were not in control of the bicycle and rode into the busy street without looking or stopping for traffic. They claim the police investigation report is sufficient for you to be charged with an offence and that you owe for damage to the vehicle. Pure fabrication by the lot of them!”

All this was news to Delia. Sgt. Noakes never indicated she had done anything wrong. “Am I to be charged with some sort of violation? Is that what this is about? After I was hit by that car and taken to hospital?”

“It appears so cariad. Who knew things would turn out this way? We were the ones who suffered. You had no memories. Do you know what that’s like for a parent? You couldn’t know. You were purple with bruises and childlike, afraid of everyone. Don’t they know that an intelligent, well brought up girl on her own in London would be careful? I saw you on your cousin’s bike back home since you were small. I know you thought I didn’t see it, but I did. You could handle it. Inside I was proud of your independence. But now, I know this city, these people, they were nearly the death of you.”

…to be continued


	2. The Artful Delia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia and her mother cross London for an important appointment.  
> What can go wrong when a mother tries to control her daughter's life?  
> Will Delia end up in jail because of her interference?  
> Patsy makes a guest appearance. This chapter gets serious and silly.

Chapter 2  
Fatigue and confusion were more powerful than her mother’s words which drifted only partially into her consciousness. Delia was not sure if their stop was coming up and whether to pull the stop request. She was saved by the conductor who personally came over to them, or rather to Mrs Busby, and advised, “Next stop Chancery Lane, ladies. It’s been a pleasure accompanying you on your journey.” He winked, nodded again and added “A votre service!”

“Such cheek,” Mrs Busby said under her breath.

“What was that Mam?”

“Nothing cariad,” she said and in a hushed tone added, “This city… How can you live among… Oh never mind.”

The buzz around Holborn was different than Poplar or even Cardiff. For one thing there were more men and women in suits. More black cabs. More stalls selling periodicals with shocking headlines painted on white paper mounted on folding boards. Everyone looked rushed.

In their brief time on the street, Delia noticed another distinction. There were the busy worker-bee types who spiritlessly walked with purpose carrying their weighty paper briefs. They wore under-polished shoes with well-worn heels and coats with shiny thread worn elbows. On the opposite end of the spectrum were the well-to-do types with leather footgear polished like carved black obsidian, dark pin-striped suits and shiny leather cases. There were no mothers with prams or hawkers selling wares. Why did my mother insist on bringing me here? I suppose I’ll learn that soon enough, she thought.

Mrs Busby removed an envelope from her handbag. She passed it to Delia, thinking her daughter would know where to go next, but not knowing Delia had never been to this part of London. Delia took the envelope, read the address and looked around for some sign or inkling of where to turn. Fortunately, one of the lesser heeled individuals had paused next to them to catch paper files that were falling from her arms. Delia, reflexively caught a file before it fell to the damp pavement. The woman smiled her thanks. Delia took that moment to pray for directions.

The woman looked at Delia’s envelope and said, “Follow me. I’m en route there myself.” Delia took her mother’s arm and they stepped quickly to keep up with the fast paced Londoner. After walking briskly past a few streets, they turned into an unobtrusive alley. They walked through the alley into a tree lined courtyard with multistory buildings on 4 sides.

Unlike the soot covered buildings on the street, the walls of these stone buildings were clean and bright with pock-marked carving in shades of white and light amber. The doors were grand and imposing. The Welsh women looked around for their destination. Mrs Busby was initially, happily impressed with her choices and Delia was somewhat impressed by the obvious wealth but still curious why her mother insisted she come. The woman who led them indicated for them to follow her into the building with the carved red door and polished brass nails. She turned the heavy brass handle centered on the door and held it open using her body, pressing her back into the heavy door. Delia, sensing another probable papers drop, took over the door duties and held it open for her mother. The woman nodded with her head for them to go desk at the left of the entry. She then disappeared up the dark mahogany staircase before either Busby could express her thanks.

“Good morning, ladies. May I take your coats?” a young man asked. The Welshwomen passed their coats over the desk and took their coat check number. As he handled their coats, he silently gauged the quality of the weave, pattern and weight of the fabrics. Somewhat impressed with the quality, but not with the style, he hazarded a silent guess that the women were not familiar with the latest Paris or even London fashions, but rather might be simple country women merely visiting the city. In an affected tone he asked, “If you please, mesdames, with whom is your appointment? You do have an appointment, do you not?”

Mrs Busby immediately sensed the condescending tone and replied, “We, sir, have an appointment within The Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn. We are here to see Mr Munch in his chambers.” 

He heard the accent that accompanied the information and downturned one side of his mouth. Then the cocky young man asked their names and picked up the black handset of his telephone to make a call. After confirming what they said, he instructed the women to take a seat in the chairs across the anteroom. The stuffed chairs were red leather with imposing arm rests carved like lion’s paws. The women’s feet dangled uncomfortably between the large carved wooden legs also shaped like a lion’s.

Mrs Busby’s observations about London and what an ill fit the city is for her daughter were becoming more and more confirmed by her interactions with the place and populace. Miss Busby, however, was fading fast. Her energy sapped by the lack of sleep and journey to parts unknown for reasons unknown. A long nap would not have been out of order, but unfortunately was not to be.

A few minutes into their wait they were greeted by a woman in a grey wool suit, Miss Wood. She advised Mr Munch would soon be returning from court for their appointment. She asked them to follow her up the stairs, that is, if Miss Busby is able to maneuver the stairs. Delia nodded in the affirmative, wondering just what is going on? Once upstairs, Miss Wood inquired whether they would like some tea during their wait and indicated where they might freshen up if needs must.

The two women were silently pleased there was a settee which was considerably shorter than the chairs downstairs. With their feet touching the floor and their backs comfortably resting on the ample cushions, it was much more welcoming than their initial wait. Miss Wood returned with tea and a sincere smile. Delia observed her at her desk. A white marble plinth held a brass name plate with ‘Miss Eleanor Wood, secretary to Mr Phillip Bott, legal assistant to Mr C.E. Munch engraved upon it. Mrs Busby noted the pecking order; Delia noted the colourful art around the room. It reminded her of… At that moment her thoughts were interrupted by Mr Bott who advised it would be just a few minutes more. With that advisement, Miss Wood politely asked for their tea cups.

Mr Bott moved to the door with the large brass plaque engraved: ’C. E. Munch, Barrister, Green’s Chambers Lincoln’s Inn’. A few moments later everyone turned to see whose footsteps were approaching from the stairs. A middle-aged man, of short stature, in a barrister’s robe and wig came bounding from the stairs into the room, whereupon, Mr Bott took the case and papers from the barrister’s arms, then opened and closed a door for him.

Mr Bott put the items on his desk and glanced at his watch. Mentally noting the time, he waited five minutes before rapping twice on the door, opening it and announcing, Mrs Busby and her daughter here to see you, sir. The barrister must have signaled for them to come in because Mr Bott said, “Mr Munch will see you now.”

The Welshwomen stepped into the room and stood, waiting for instructions. Mr Munch had removed his wig, but not his robe. He stepped forward, shook both women’s hands and then stepped back, removed the heavy black robe and placed it on the standing valet where it joined the wig. Mrs Busby smiled at her familiarity with the unusual item, designed for especially for this purpose. They had only sold one or two of them at the draper’s shop in the years she had worked there but she recognized the fine quality of the one in this room.

As they settled in, Delia observed the shelves full of scrolls tied with red ribbon. She also saw the walls of books, but most of her attention focused on Mr Munch. He was just barely taller than Delia and had an unusual hair style. Brylcreem was popular enough, but it was the comb over and side burns that were strange, something she thought she had seen before, but couldn’t put her finger on where. The long flat hair at his temples was styled to curl into something like logarithmic spirals, seemingly glued to the sides of his head from the brylcreem. The hair on his head flattened to accommodate the wig, no doubt, but with a scroll like flourish just above his forehead. The robe had hidden his round shape and Delia wondered if his waist was as wide as his stature was tall.

“Mr Davies forwarded his file in order that I might familiarize myself with the ongoing litigation. As you know, the allegations by the civil defendants are quite disconcerting and damaging to your causes of action. Most recently the insurance company has petitioned for criminal negligence charges to be filed against Miss Busby. If prosecuted, Miss Busby will have to defend herself from apparent jail time and monetary damages.”

“How can this be, sir? It was my daughter and family who were wronged! Mr Davies, our solicitor, assured me the injuries my daughter suffered from the motor vehicle accident would be compensable for her pain and suffering, her loss of income, and my time caring for her when she had seizures and didn’t know who she was!”

By now, it was obvious Delia wasn’t paying attention, the fatigue from her night shift causing her to hear perhaps one of every five words being spoken. Her head was starting to droop forward. It wasn’t until her mother, tapped her arm that she was startled to attention.

“Did you hear Mr Munch? He asked whether you have any defenses to the criminal charges relating to your accident?”

“No… mam… I didn’t understand… what?”

Mrs Busby took this opportunity to point out, “You see, she still starts to get spells. We have an appointment with the specialists next week to determine whether her spells have truly stopped. She is tired all the time and loses her focus.”

Delia was starting to be persuaded her mother may be right. Stringing her thoughts together and participating in this legal conversation was impossible for her. She did have a shock of recognition though. Her head starting to bow down again with her fatigue and her eyes half closed, her thoughts drifted to a song, not just any tune but a song from a movie. The lyrics and people in the film were clear in her head despite the words being exchanged in the lawyer's office which were presumably for her edification.

~~ As Mayor of Munchkin City, In the County of the Land of Oz, I welcome you most regally.~~

Mrs Busby was busy outlining some information she was certain the lawyer was not aware of before their meeting. Sgt Noakes told her that there was a dog inside the car that hit her daughter. It was his opinion that the dog distracted the driver causing inattention which resulted in her daughter being hit, flying through the air and landing on her head.

~~But we’ve got to verify it legally, to see.~~ It was as if Mr Munch was reciting the lyrics to the song as it rambled through Delia’s head. 

Mrs Busby asked,”To see?” or was it just in her head? Delia didn’t know.

~~If she, If she, is morally, ethically, physically, positively, absolutely~~ “ and factually clear about what happened that day”, Mr Munch outlined.

Delia’s daydream continued and she heard only ~~Undeniably and reliably…~~ She realized her mother had been talking but the it was both the song's lyrics and her mother whose next word was clearly “Dead”.

“She could have died, Mr Munch. The doctors called it a severe head trauma resulting in traumatic brain injury and amnesia.

“I’m aware of that, Mrs Busby” Mr Munch declared, “I have reviewed the medical file”.

Not to be deterred and knowing this was likely her only opportunity to get the lawyer on her side, Mrs Busby continued outlining the witness statements and sternly retold the story of her months-long caretaking in Wales. She elaborated on the worry and fright they all experienced during the recuperation period.

Meanwhile, Delia was distracted. She was looking at two paintings in the office. They looked so familiar. One was of a red haired girl obviously sick in bed. Grieving at her side was a woman with darker hair, head bowed. The placard on the frame said, “The Sick Child” E. Munch. Bookshelves lined the wall between this and the other painting that Delia couldn’t take her eyes from. It was titled “The Dance of Life” E. Munch. Delia recognized each painting now. She had seen them with Patsy at the Tate Gallery during a Munch exhibition. 

She reminisced. She and Patsy both wanted to see “The Scream” and they arranged for a visit on an afternoon off. Once inside, they approached the painting, stopped, and then simultaneously turned to one another. With hands on the sides of their faces they mocked silent screams to each other as if it had been choreographed. The expressive silence turned into giggles; the giggles escalated into laughter. They were chided by the security agent for their happy noise, so they scurried away from him as quickly as possible. 

As they continued through the exhibition they enjoyed the colorful artwork and commentary by a docent guiding a tour. They learned about the possible inspiration of Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ on Munch’s piece of the same name. The docent explained that Edvard Munch lost his sister and mother to tuberculosis. His father’s mental illness and these deaths profoundly impacted Munch’s life and works. She pointed to “The Sick Child” and said, “Without their deaths he wouldn’t have created the modern masterpieces we can appreciate today.” As the commentary wound down, Delia turned to look at Patsy and saw that she was standing stiffly and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Delia took hold of Patsy’s arm and led her from the gallery to the café. They each shed tears and shared tea at the museum that day. 

The memory of that day made Delia’s eyes well with fresh tears. She heard Mr. Munch, “They are beautiful are they not? Have you seen them before?” 

Delia acknowledged she had seen them at the Tate exhibition earlier that year. “But how is it you have them in your office? Are they yours? Are you a relative of Edvard Munch?”

“I am a distant relative. I was able to finagle a stopover for these before they return to Oslo. Great art inspires. These inspire one to remember that legal cases are not just about the law, but about people. People who may be happy or sad, who may suffer the loss of their health, freedoms or finances. As a lawyer, one aspires to serve my clients to the best of my ability and use my skills, the law and facts for satisfactory outcomes.”

A clock chimed 11 a.m. Mr Munch turned his attention back to Delia, whom he observed had not been an active participant earlier. “Tell me, Miss Busby. What happened that day? Did you drink anything alcoholic? What experience did you have with bicycles prior to the incident? Were you not paying attention prior to the collision?”

Delia explained that her only beverage was lemon squash prior to her ride to work, for which she had to be alert and sober. She was riding with all due care. The car was not visible prior to her entering the intersection and being struck. Her mother interjected that her daughter has been confidently riding bicycles since she was a child in Wales.

Much to the consternation of her mother, Delia started asking questions. “How did this lawsuit even come to be, Mr Munch? Did I understand you correctly that I may be criminally and civilly liable for the accident? How can this be?”

“The initial case was brought forward by Welsh solicitor, Mr Davies, who filed the suit pursuant to the court ordered Power of Attorney granting him authority to do so on your behalf. General, special, aggravated and exemplary damages are being sought by you for dangerous driving by the operator of the car and his employer who owned the car and sent him on his errand that day.”

All this was news to Delia. “If you would explain what damages are and give me your advise about the criminal case”?

Mr Munch explained damages are basically about what kind of money you can recover in tort. What was frightening to Delia and Mrs Busby was that they were each learning that Delia could be imprisoned if she was criminally negligent for breaching her duty of care to ride the bike safely which caused the accident and damage to the car and driver. Additionally, she could be financially responsible for damage to the automobile, and the physical injuries to the driver of the car.

Mr Munch continued his oration with what sounded like a presentation to a jury: 

"It has been held liability is based upon a general public sentiment of moral wrongdoing for which the offender must pay and people must take reasonable care to avoid acts or omissions which you can reasonably foresee would be likely to injure your neighbour.

Wherever a man receives any hurt through the default of another, though the same were not willful, yet if it be occasioned by negligence or folly, the law gives him an action to recover damages for the injury so sustained.

The law takes no cognisance of carelessness in the abstract. It concerns itself with carelessness only where there is a duty to take care and where failure in that duty has caused damage. Whether there was a duty and breach would be examined by the standard of the reasonable person. These circumstances must adjust and adapt itself to the changing circumstances of life. The categories of negligence are never closed."

To say this was boring to Delia was an understatement. Delia’s energy reserves were depleted. Mrs Busby, however, shifted defensively into high gear. Grasping the gravity of the situation and ever ready to defend her family, she firmly reiterated old facts and outlined ones she though would be new facts she felt Mr Munch had ignored. She felt they reasonably demonstrated her daughter could not have been at fault. Sgt Noakes would prove that up for them. As for damages, the business was a wealthy Fleet Street publisher. In the driver’s second statement to the police, he said he was given the owner’s car to drive, which he hadn’t driven before, he was told to rush his errands to meet publication deadlines and that the owner’s wife had demanded he take her dog to the groomer once he finished his business deliveries.

With that Mr Munch informed them what would happen next. A letter demanding redress and reparations from the insurance company would be sent. “We will demand they immediately dismiss their allegations of any wrongdoing by Miss Busby or we will file for injunctive relief. A copy of our forensic accountant’s calculations shall be included to outline monetary damages for pain and suffering, employment losses, Mrs Busby’s time and attention caring for her daughter and whatever other items they felt would be pursuing should this matter proceed to jury trial. By Jove they’ll be paying for a fleet of bicycles with shiny new bells if we get our way!”

The barrister’s confidence restored as to the merits of the case and Mrs Busby’s concerns alleviated, it was time for the meeting to conclude.

“When will we know more, Mr Munch?” Delia inquired.

“The wheels of justice grind slowly. It could be weeks or months. My staff will keep you apprised. You focus on getting well, I can see you still don’t have the energy one would expect from a woman of your young age. If we do proceed to trial, I have no doubt the jury will find you are an intelligent, hardworking, genial witness. Before you leave, take Mr Bott’s card. He’ll answer your future questions.”

A knock at the door announced Mr Bott’s entry and he escorted the ladies from the chambers.

“I have some paperwork for you to complete. Please take my card with you and contact me with any additional concerns. Rest assured we have the matters well in hand.”

…..to be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of story Notes: 
> 
> I don’t know if Munch had an exhibition at the Tate or in London during this era. I thought Patsy’s and the artist’s losses made an interesting crossover in the story. I wanted to lighten up the possible criminal angst with art but it brought its own angst back. Argh! Sorry Delia!
> 
> Please accept my apologies for the Wizard of Oz daydream. I was trying to lighten up things for poor, worn out Delia. I always liked how the Mayor of Munchkin City wanted the wicked witch to be legally dead. 
> 
> Oz lyrics going through Delia’s head and intermingling with and during the legal conversation as to whether she has a case:  
> As Mayor of Munchkin City, In the County of the Land of Oz, I welcome you most regally.  
> But we've got to verify it legally, to see  
> To see?  
> If she  
> If she?  
> Is morally, ethically  
> Spiritually, physically  
> Positively, absolutely  
> Undeniably and reliably Dead
> 
> Oh and I mean for the barrister's hair to be kind of like Fibonacci’s sequence—logarithmic spirals for the curls on Mr Munch’s sideburns.  
> Kind of Munchkinlike. I just can’t help myself. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments are welcome and appreciated.


End file.
